


So Consumed With All Your Doom

by ChangeableConsistency



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Body Hatred, Gen, Self-Loathing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-24
Updated: 2012-03-24
Packaged: 2017-11-02 11:02:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/368271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChangeableConsistency/pseuds/ChangeableConsistency
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone thinks they know why he avoids mirrors. Everyone is wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Consumed With All Your Doom

Somehow he manages to make it through the day. And then another. And another. Until they start to blur together. He goes to the lab. Checks in on a still-unconscious Charles. Eats when Alex makes him. Sleeps. Sometimes.

When the lab was rebuilt after…after everything, he had ordered matte work surfaces; their brushed aluminum so dull not even colors were reflected.

He’d had to re-learned how to type. He’d lost track of the number of keyboards he’d gone through, ~~nails~~ claws slicing through the plastic or misjudged strength breaking the keys. It was a relief when he finally mastered how to place his fingers without looking at his hands, teaching himself exactly how much pressure was appropriate to keep the fragile keyboard from shattering under his hands like a flawed beaker over high heat.

It wasn’t the keyboard that was flawed.

He had removed the mirror from his bedroom (in pieces), the one in the bathroom was easier to deal with, he just left the medicine cabinet open, the mirror flush with the wall.

Sometimes after a long shower (all his showers were long now, shampooing his…fur…took for goddamn ever, even on the days he wasn’t so disgusted with himself he spent half the time retching) he would step in front of the sink and close the cabinet, fur wet and dark, slick against his skin, and he would wipe a small window in the fogged glass to stare at his eyes through the steam. If the shower was hot enough (hot enough to burn, hot enough to scour, to wash himself away) it obscured the dark blue around his eyes, the yellow of his irises.

He wasn’t sure if it was the greatest mercy or most terrible cruelty that he could stand, dripping before the mirror, and, for just a brief moment, see himself again.

**Author's Note:**

> I am really hoping someone is able to help Hank see how beautiful he is.


End file.
